


Another Loss

by undernightlight



Category: Undrafted (2016)
Genre: And probably a councillor, Anger Management, Baseball, Baseball Idiots, Patrick needs some love, my boy has anger issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 07:38:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16614704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undernightlight/pseuds/undernightlight
Summary: His team loses another game, and Patrick deals with it the best way he knows how, with violence and tears.





	Another Loss

**Author's Note:**

> A small fandom I believe, but hopefully somebody finds this? I don't know, but I enjoyed writing this anyway, so I hope you enjoy reading.

He slammed the car door as he climbed out, violently throwing his bag over his shoulder as he made a line to the front door. He could hear his father calling him, telling him to slow down, to calm himself before entering the house but he didn’t listen. The front door swung open with ease and he bound up the stairs two by two, not stopping to say a word to his mother or sister, instead reaching his room in record time. The loud slam echoed through the house as his father, Brian Murray, entered. He gave an apologetic smile to his wife as he kissed her cheek and headed for the kitchen, in desperate need of coffee or alcohol, whatever he found first; as much as he loved his son, his anger made him hard to handle. The following scream didn’t sound through the house in the same way, muffled by the wood and walls, but it was still heard.

Patrick threw his bag across the room, making a thud as it his the opposite wall and slid to the floor, soon followed by his hat. He punched the wall, the one he knew was drywall, and his fist went straight through; he needed to cover the holes, if only to give him more space to hit in the future. Keeping his hand in the hollow space, he leaned forward, forehead against the wall, slowly increasing the pressure. It hurt, gave him headaches, but he did it anyway. He let out another scream of frustration, and he ripped his hand out of the wall in response, the momentum swinging him around into the space of the room. His breathing was heavy.

He swept an arm across his desk, his books and paper and pens scattering, a disaster like his life, as he then flung the chair out from under his desk across the room, toppling over as the wheel caught on a shoe. The clothes folded neatly on the chair fell into a messy pile where the chair landed at the foot of his bed. His made bed was now in stark contrast the rest of his room, and he flung the pillows at the door. The door was locked, so it didn’t matter how much of a mess he made as long as he cleaned it up. Eventually.

His legs wobbled, knees weak, and he felt them give way. He had enough time to support himself against his desk before he hit the floor, allowing to stay almost upright entirely. A gentle tapping filled the room as his shaking fingers hit the desk repeatedly.

_Get a fucking hold of yourself, you idiot!_

Waiting before he moved, he sat there silently cursing himself. Patrick still wasn’t sure what good his actions actually brought him, not long term good anyway, but it was perfect for short term, instantaneous relief; he knew however he needed something more permanent than his normal routine. When he thought his legs were stable enough, he stepped forward, only to find they were unable to hold him up. He didn’t have time to re-latch himself to the desk and he felt to the floor, his head narrowly missing the corner of his bedside table. As he tried to push himself upright, he found his arms were too weak, just like the rest of him. He wasn’t normally on the floor when he started to cry, but it didn’t really matter where, that wasn’t important to the routine.

His body began to curl in, his arms drawing in and around his head, his knees dragging up closer. He started so quietly, barely audible to himself, his vision lightly blurring, but as the seconds passed, he became more hysterical, struggling to breathe even more than he already was. He was loud, sobbing, tear soaking into his dirtied baseball shirt and the carpet beneath him.

_Get up. Get up! GET UP!_

He couldn’t. His whole body was shaking, his ribs hurting, his heart hurting more. Every movement made was random, sporadic, any attempt to control his own body was pointless. His fingers locking in and curled around his hair, tugging at small fistfuls to relieve the stress to no avail. He couldn’t see now. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, and whenever he opened them, it was a fuzzy mess of colour, no district shape; he was only able to recognise the items because he knew his room.

Why didn’t he just quit? What did it matter? He couldn’t hit for shit, striking out every single time, and his team would laugh, point it out – like he didn’t already fucking know – joke and tell him to get better. Do they not think he was trying? He tried so hard but he just couldn’t do it and it killed him, and he didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t sure why he stayed with the team, but he did, turning up every match with some glimmer of hope in him buried deep, only for it to be burned up within minutes, within seconds, of the game starting.

Some amount of time passed before his body began to still. He didn’t know how long he’d been laying there, not that it really mattered, no one would even try to talk to him when he was like this. He still couldn’t see clearly as he pushing himself up to his knees, then to his feet, wobbling and bracing himself against his desk. Remaining upright, he took a step and this time didn’t fall, then another. He picked up his chair, dumping the clothes back on now messily, and slowly began picking up his scattered stationary. He placed them back on the desk with the book and paper and other small items that previously went flying; they weren’t back where they were supposed to be, where they needed to be, but he could sort that out later. Picking up the pillows, he placed them on the bed, holding one against his chest and burying his face in it for a few moments before doing so.

He was still struggling to breathe, unable to get oxygen into his body, but instead of short rapid intakes, he was breathing in slow but staggered, his throat not allowing him. Patrick swallowed around the lump but it didn’t much help.

He swung open his wardrobe door to the mirror hung inside. The black pain on his face had barely smudged, waterproof, but there was give in the pigment. His face was red, blotchy and puffy and he hated it. He wiped the back of his hands across his face to swipe away any remaining tears, to which there were a few. He then stripped off his kit, kicking his boots into the bottom of the wardrobe. The clothes ended up in a pile by the door – he’d wash them later – and he pulled out clean clothes, track pants and a t-shirt. When dressed, he pulled on his trainers and headed to the bathroom.

He managed to get the paint off using the makeup wipes he kept for this reason on the top shelf of the cabinet, and he then washed his face with cold water. The majority of his face returned to its original colour and he breathed in. His breathing was steady again, but not for long, he thought. He shuffled himself out of the bathroom and downstairs to the kitchen. His mother was there, and she looked over him concerned, but knew by now that it was pointless to try and speak to him when he was like this. He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge before leaving the room, the leaving the house.

And he began running, gentle at first, setting a pace, but then he sprinted, hard, his muscles crying out, his lungs crying out, but he didn’t stop, not yet. Pushing and pushing until he physically couldn’t anymore, and he had to stop. He rested a few seconds, before jogging again, taking a drink as he went. The patterned continued, jogging, sprinting then stopping. By the time he returned home, he was exhausted, more so than he already was before. His mother caught him when he came in, her coming down the stairs as he closed the door behind him. She was about to speak to him ask if he was alright, but then she saw the look on his face and thought it best not to say anything.

His feet carried him up the stairs to his room and he closed the door. He discarded his clothes, dirty and sweaty, but he was too tired for a shower himself; later, he thought, as he climbed into his bed. Patrick was ready to be done. Everything seemed to make him angry and he didn’t know how to cope other than his poor routine of making a mess and crying. It wasn’t health, he knew that, he wasn’t as stupid as people made him out to be, but it was the only thing that seemed to work even the smallest amount other than pure aggression, and that wasn’t an option. The coach told him no one had ever broke that many bats before. Patrick didn’t know how else to cope then and there as he refused to cry on the field and during a game.

_You’re fucking pathetic!_

“I know,” he whispers to himself as he began to drift to sleep, so exhausted he just couldn’t keep his eyes open.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a fan of Joe Mazzello's work and I actually quite enjoyed this film, even though I don't like sport related films. Some characters were definitely annoying for me, but I really liked Murray because, to me, he seemed probably the most damaged? Like, yes he's an angry guy, but I feel there's more too him than that. I liked Maz too, he was good, and that montage towards the end as he's up to bat...that was heart warming.


End file.
